


A Symphony For The Departed

by jackstanifold



Series: You Made it Through, You Finally Moved, That's Good for You [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Dehumanization, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Human Experimentation, Immortal Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Kinda, Phil Watson Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Powers SMP - Freeform, TommyInnit Has ADHD (Video Blogging RPF), quick explanation: wilbur was a tyrant phil fucking killed him and now they live together, seriously this is kinda dark, this one is actually kinda fucked up quick warning, tommy was raised in a meat factory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 08:41:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30136947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackstanifold/pseuds/jackstanifold
Summary: Wilbur was a terrible person, back when he was alive. But 35 years of facing his consequences may be enough to change him.(title from for the departed by shayfer james)
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: You Made it Through, You Finally Moved, That's Good for You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165289
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	A Symphony For The Departed

**Author's Note:**

> quick warning, this one is actually really dark, it deals with some dark themes, but i just. i really like this server.

_Even in life, he was not a kind man._

_He was raised in the streets, his parents never bothering to feed him, so he stole. He stole, and lied, and cheated, just to get food._

_Just to survive._

_That was the price of life. His morality for a chance to wake up every day._

_It was an easy choice._

_He was always too thin for physical fighting, but after a while, he learned to use his words. Learned to dig under his opponent's skin. Learned to bite._

_And with that, he climbed ranks._

_He was 17 when he first ran for president of L'Manburg. It went nowhere, of course, no one would vote for a kid, but four years later, he ran again._

_And this time, he won._

_Sitting in his office, that first night, he decided he wasn't going to lose anything ever again._

_So he sunk in his claws, and teeth, and got rid of anyone who could stand against him._

_Hybrids._

_They weren't human, he said, barely a month in. They don't think like us. We shouldn't have to treat them the same way._

_The people agreed, of course, he had that kind of effect, and hybrids were forced out of town en mass. He watched them go with a smile on his face._

_He kept making changes._

_To argue with him was to open the door for your funeral parade._

_Finally, one of the neighboring kingdoms sent a messenger, upset with him for sending hybrid refugees flooding in, and he happily declared war on them._

_It was a long and bloody conflict, but it ended with the entirety of the Antarctic Empire's army eliminated, and he stood victorious in his office, smiling as he downed a celebratory glass of champagne._

_There was a creak behind him, from the door, and he turned, expecting to see one of his advisors._

_An elytrian stood before him._

_One dressed in the colors of the Empire._

_He barely had time to react before the sword was run through his lungs, and he fell with a cry._

It had been thirty five years since the president died. 

L'Manburg had faded, wars and conflicts tearing it apart, until nothing was left except a shell.

Hybrids still avoided the land as best they could.

All except one.

Wilbur Soot paced the streets, eyeing the dark sky anxiously. He had a few hours left until daylight, but it paid to be careful.

He wasn't a true hybrid, he was a phantom- an undead spirit, but according to the official definition of hybrid (a non-human humanoid that has roughly-human intelligence), that counted.

He wasn't welcome here.

The locals made sure he knew that.

They cast him dirty looks as he paced the dark streets, bitter gazes and loud whispers. It was no longer _illegal_ for a hybrid to set foot amongst the humans per se, but…

He sighed, adjusting his sweater collar and shaking his hair out of his eyes.

He'd have to be quick.

He darted into a brand-new shop that was already open somehow, despite the early hours, not looking the shopkeeper in the eye as he grabbed a loaf of bread and a few apples, setting them down on the counter.

“Y’ look familiar,” The man grunted, his thick, wooly moustache twitching a bit as he spoke. “Y’ come ‘round ’ere often?”

Wilbur hesitated. “Not really, no.”

The man huffed, narrowing his eyes. Wilbur knew as soon as he looked in a history book or asked a neighbor, he would figure it out. 

After all, being the man responsible for his own species near-genocide was a pretty remarkable thing.

He hadn’t realised he would turn into a phantom. Phantom dna is a very recessive gene, only one in a million, and even then, it isn’t activated until death. When the assassin- a personal friend of the Emperor of the Ice- ran his sword through Wilbur’s ribs, that should have been the end. Instead, he became the very thing he swore to destroy.

It was painful, to know that you guaranteed your own downfall.

He left town as soon as he could, moving through the trees, trying not to think about the sun peeking over the horizon.

He had a little cabin, out here, far from civilization. It was safe, and small, and hidden.

A little too hidden, he thought wryly.

He remembered his old friend Josh. Josh was good at directions, he always knew where to go. He was either very old or dead now, Wilbur thought, and immediately shook that train of thought away.

He didn’t like thinking about sad things.

None of the landmarks were familiar, he realised suddenly. The clump of boulders, or the lava pool, or the flower patch. He didn’t remember any of them.

He froze, turning in a circle, slowly, trying to think.

Where the hell was he?

The sun was coming up, rays of light filtering between the leaves, and he swallowed down a cry when a bit touched his skin, sizzling painfully.

Quickly, he went ‘ghost’, his body becoming completely transparent, his hands shaking a bit as he tried to level his breathing.

He started to walk briskly in one direction, clenching his fists tightly to ground himself.

The sunlight pierced his body, but now that he was intangible, it did nothing. It was odd, walking in daylight, but not unpleasant.

Or, at least, it wasn’t unpleasant until the ghost mode began to take its effect.

His stomach pitched violently, and his vision swam. His head felt too light, too airy, and he took a shuddering gasp of air, trying to blink the spots away. He couldn’t breathe, he realised, collapsing to his knees. He couldn’t breathe.

“Mate?”

He jolted around, ghost mode finally slipping from him as he stared up at the man before him, into familiar cold blue eyes, and then he was gone.

Wilbur was always a fan of theatrics. Even in life, he’d worn shoes with particularly loud heels to pace the mansion he’d had built, the sound of his footsteps echoing the dimly lit halls, a warning more than anything else. He’d thrown festival after festival, his speeches grand and emotional, his words polished and elegant.

No, Wilbur Soot had no problem with dramatics.

But fainting in the arms of his killer was not something he had in mind.

He didn’t awake until night fell once again, his body taking it’s bloody time to heal, to rest. He didn’t like to sleep much, it was a waste of time, but he didn’t have much choice, he was physically and mentally exhausted.

He woke to an empty cabin, and immediately pushed himself upright, ignoring the way his stomach heaved. The wood floor was well swept, the bed he was in tucked away in a corner. There was a small pool of water in the corner, like some sort of well, but he brushed that aside. He had bigger problems right now.

The man who had caught him, in the woods. He knew who that was.

The crystal blue eyes that cut like diamonds, the golden hair tied in a braid, the sharp sword at his waist.

He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t dead. The last time they’d met, it hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms…

The door opened, and he threw himself back, his spine slamming against the wall hard enough to make his fingertips tingle. 

The figure in the door wasn’t the man.

It was a boy, around 13 or 14 years old, with fluffy white-blond hair and a pale face. A pair of small white wings were sprouting from his back, He blinked at Wilbur, before laughing.

“You scared?”

Wilbur frowned at him. “No, of course not. Why would I-”

“You’re scared~” The boy sang, smiling at him. “Ghost man is scared!”

His voice was loud, and a bit grating, his accent very heavily Northern, but he spoke oddly, in cut off sentences, like a toddler.

“Shut up,” Wilbur muttered, eying him. “Where’s the other man?”

The boy tilted his head, reminding him of a pigeon. “Out. Fishing.”

“Ok…” He rose, swaying on his feet a bit as he tried to fight down the bile in his throat. “Alright, I’m going to leave now, don’t…”

“No,” A new voice cut in, this one almost painfully familiar. “You shouldn’t be up.”

He stared at the man who walked in, immediately shrinking back.

The man hadn’t aged a day, his face still soft and youthful, his hair without a touch of gray. Wilbur scowled. Thirty five years and the man looked the same.

“Hello, Wilbur Soot,” The Elytrian said. “My name is Philza. This is Tommy. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Despite his situation, Wilbur coughed out an incredulous laugh. “Sure, sure.”

Tommy frowned at him. “What? Do you not trust us?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Philza cast a look at Tommy. “Hey, mate. Can you wait outside?”

The boy looked between them, narrowing his eyes, before huffing. “‘Kay.”

They were left alone, staring at each other, dull chocolate eyes meeting sharp sapphire blue.

“Are you going to kill me again?” Wilbur asked, hoarsely.

Philza didn’t reply, clearly thinking, and the phantom sighed, lowering his head.

“No.”

Wilbur jolted. “What?”

“No, I won’t hurt you,” Philza repeated, voice cold as ice. “I meant that. But… If I think you mean any harm to me or Tommy…”

“No, no,” Wilbur said hastily. “I- I don’t… No, I’ve learned my lesson…”

“Good,” Philza said, gaze piercing. “In which case,” He crossed the room, reaching out to a bandage winding up Wilbur’s neck. “You will be staying here, to heal.”

“What?”

“Must I repeat everything?” Philza sighed, but it sounded light hearted. “You will be staying with me and Tommy, your skin is badly burnt and you wouldn’t survive out there for long.”

Wilbur stared at him blankly. “You’re joking.... I killed your entire nation.”

“No,” Philza replied, his voice dark. “You declared war, and sat back as my home burned, but you did not kill them. Besides… thirty five years of living in your own shadow must have changed you, somehow. For the better, I should hope.”

“You’re a strange man.”

“Thank you,” The smile was back. “I take that as a compliment. Now, dinner’s about ready. Help me wash the potatoes.”

Wilbur wasn’t sure when he started thinking of Philza as Phil, but he did. He wasn’t sure when he started thinking of the little farmhouse by the lake as home, but he did. He wasn’t sure when he healed enough to walk around the house easily, but he did.

Phil took off his bandages that afternoon, running his fingers over the smooth skin. Wilbur expected to be kicked out that night, expected to be told to leave, but that night at dinner, Phil started talking about caving that weekend. He asked Wilbur if he would be willing to carry supplies, and Wilbur blinked at him. 

“Alright,” He said.

He never left.

He told Tommy who he was in life after a month or two, and the boy narrowed his eyes.

“I was born in a factory. I was meant to be someone’s food because of you.”

Wilbur flinched, curling in on himself.

“... But you also told Phil I didn’t break that window, so… I forgive you.”

Tommy was an odd one. He was loud, and energetic, he liked to pull pranks on people, he liked to make shitty cobblestone towers to perch on top of to sleep. He liked listening to Wilbur sing, and tell stories. He liked going adventuring with Phil, and letting him preen his wings.

Wilbur wasn’t sure when he started thinking of him as a brother, but he did.

It was hard to describe, the feeling of family, the feeling of home.

This wasn’t what he deserved, he thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to push them away.

“Why do you let me stay?” 

Phil glanced up, raising an eyebrow at him. “Pardon?”

“Why haven’t you made me leave?”

“Oh,” Phil muttered. “This again. Wilbur, look,” He stood. “You did terrible things in life, right?”

Wilbur gulped, glancing away anxiously. “I did, yes.”

“And you have experienced those things first hand. You faced the oppression you created.”

“I-” The phantom hesitated. “Not as bad as others. Tommy… Tommy was raised in a factory, for food. I just had a tough time getting around town, it’s not-”

“Do you remember Technoblade?” Phil interrupted, eyes sharp, but not unkind.

“The… the emperor?”

“Yeah. He was a piglin hybrid, raised in hog fighting rings long before you made hybrids illegal. He told me one time that my childhood was something he envied, but… it doesn’t matter where you came from. Some had it worse, that’s true, but we can’t afford to be split by experiences that should unite us.”

“... there’s a difference.”

“Is there? If you could, would you take it all back?”

“Of course,” Wilbur said, immediately. “Of course I would, you know this.”

“Then maybe,” Phil grinned. “You deserve another chance?”

Later that night, Wilbur asked him what happened to Technoblade. He knew the emperor was dead, but he had never learned how.

“The last battle,” Phil whispered, eyes on the hearth. “There was an explosion, it took out our whole section.”

“I’m sorry.”

Phil looked at him then, and something in his eyes seemed so tired, and once again, Wilbur found himself wondering how old he was. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

For once, Wilbur almost believed him.

**Author's Note:**

> god, i miss powers smp...


End file.
